Insanely long line at Starbucks, naturally, as it's 7:30 AM. Young goateed dope in front of me gets to the front of the line, looks at the pastry display. "The crumb cake?" he asks the barista. "What's that like? What's in that?"
The barista looks at the goateed dope like she wants to say, "Crumbs." She can't, though, or can't bring herself to. So I say it. The barista, facing me, hears me; the man, facing the barista, doesn't appear to. The goateed dope proceeds to ask the same question about two of the other pastries: "What's in that? What's that like?"
It's like white flour, butter, and sugar—they're all like white flour, butter, and sugar.
Didn't think I could hate the young goateed dope more... and then he sits down next to me, with his wife, and proceeds to loudly say grace* before eating his fucking pastry.
* For those who will accuse me of being intolerant: I didn't try to stop him from saying grace. I didn't start gathering signatures to put an initiative on the ballot that would prevent young goateed dopes from marrying or adopting children. I wanted to throttle him but... I tolerated him, I put up with him, I endured him. I am, as ever, the very model of a modern major tolerator. But I reserve the right to be annoyed by those I tolerate and to blog about it. Annoyed ≠ intolerant. Please make a note of it.